


Choir Bells

by Ghoststar



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Island Arc Never Happened, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Fluff and Humor, Future Fic, Inspired by Fanart, Jeremiah Isn't the Joker, Jerome Valeska Lives, Lives to fuck up Bruce & Jeremiah's life more like, M/M, Mutual Pining and Mutual Obliviousness, Past Tense, Soft Jeremiah Valeska
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghoststar/pseuds/Ghoststar
Summary: “I’ll let your husband know you’re waiting for him in here when he gets through.”Jeremiah, one hand on the arm of the chair to steady himself as he eased into it, felt his hand slip. He dropped into it heavily, the chair skidding several inches across the floor.“My what?” He asked the closed door, completely floored. “My what?” He repeated to the empty room.-Five times someone assumes Bruce and Jeremiah are married and one time they don't have to.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 21
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [fanart](https://batdoe.tumblr.com/post/182106620678/here-is-another-drawing-based-on-a-chat-in-the) by [Batdoe](https://batdoe.tumblr.com), which was based off a conversation between Batdoe and [theshadowrises.](https://theshadowrises.tumblr.com) I ended up incorporating a bit of the whole post so I wanted to credit everyone involved. Also, just check out all of Batdoe's art. Every last piece is fantastic. 
> 
> Further more: [definitely not the theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zlv1rdcpS9M)

The first time it happened, Bruce hardly even noticed it. Dust hung in a heavy cloud all around him, a plume of smoke rising high over the tree line and blocking out the moonlight. The air tasted like fire and decay, and he swallowed, his mouth dry as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart was racing, _thumpthumpthumping_ against his chest, a ball of panic unfurling in hot, sharp spikes in his stomach. The fear was familiar, one he carried with him every day since he watched his whole world bleed out in an alleyway.

The cops and fire rescue officials had beat him there, but not by much. Forgotten sirens rang through the air and the strobe of ambulances and cop cars lights spill out across the trees, a few still standing after the blast. Bruce cut through them, passing between them like a shadow. Selina would have been proud of how far he’d come since his first introduction to the streets all those years ago, but she wasn’t there at the moment. He moved quick, quicker than the hand that Alfred darted out to try to catch him with, face overcast with a dawning understanding that Bruce wasn’t going to like whatever he was about to find.

Bruce didn’t need Alfred to tell him that. He never had. Bruce had faced the worst and he thought- but didn't really believe- he could do it again.

They all knew that one day Jerome Valeska would come back. That the day they stopped him from dousing the city, the day Jim Gordon reeled up from where he dangled over the edge of a building like a shark caught on a line, wasn’t really the end. Two years of quiet hadn’t dimmed that knowledge. Arkham wouldn’t hold him forever, and no amount of money and staff replacements could fix the fact that Arkham was rotten to its core. There was no helping the inmates of Arkham, not while Arkham’s doors were still open.

Bruce thought they were prepared for this, but Jerome Valeska wasn’t the type of person you planned for. You weathered him and rebuilt afterwards. You just hoped there was something left to rebuild.

Bruce broke through the crowd of people, bypassing half familiar faces. The few people beyond the unofficial line drawn in police cruisers were scattered about. They stood on the edge of a crater, all seemingly preoccupied by the massive hole blown into the outskirts of Gotham city, where a little thatch of woods once stood. Jim Gordon was one of them, one hand rubbing over his jaw.

“Jim!” Bruce called, heading towards him. Harvey stood next to him, hands on his hips. They both turned to him, and Bruce could see the way Harvey mouthed, “ _shit,”_ before he finding the nearest excuse not to the one to talk to Bruce.

“Bruce,’ Jim started, meeting him halfway. He had dirt on his shoes and dusted over his shoulders from where it had rained down from the sky. “You really shouldn’t be here-”

“Where’s Jeremiah?” Bruce demanded, breathless and louder than he normally would have. “And Ms. Frances?”

Jim glanced away, for just a second, before meeting his eyes. “We haven’t found them yet. We’re sweeping the surrounding area, hoping they got out, but they might still be down there. We can’t go down yet, not until we’re sure the ground won’t cave in on top of the remaining structure.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he blinked hard as it sank in. “What-” he cleared his aching throat and continued, “what are you doing to find them? Lucius was working on a ground penetrating radar system several weeks ago. If that would be any help, I can contact him and ask him to bring it down immediately.”

Jim clasped his hand on his shoulder. Not that long ago, he would have leaned down a little look Bruce in the eye as he spoke to him. He didn’t have to anymore, and yet the old sense memory of looking up at him as Jim tried his best to comfort a child that didn’t want to be comforted pressed in on Bruce. He couldn’t never shake the feeling that Jim still saw him as that twelve year old he first met in an alley, even eight years after the fact.

Not for the first time, Bruce felt like that same twelve year old again too.

“I’ve already called Lucius. He’ll be here soon. We’re going to find them, Bruce. You just have to give us a little time to work.”

Bruce didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to be patient as other people worked on saving his friend. He didn’t want Jim to be looking at him with that pitying, pleading expression of a cop dreading delivering the worst news a person could get.

Bruce swallowed it down and nodded. “Of course, Jim.” He said, letting Jim’s comforting hand slip from his shoulder. He fell into step with Alfred as he came huffing up next to him, not quite muttering about being delayed by busybody paramedics trying to shoo him away from the scene, but close enough. He only had to take one look at Bruce to know.

“Right then,” Alfred said, as he always did when Bruce needed refocus, on or away from the task at hand. “What’s being done about Jerome Valeska?”

“Harper is following a lead. Some of his followers got into a tussle with a gang in the Narrows. We’re hoping he’s there, but if not, Harper should be able to get something out of his followers.”

It wouldn’t matter if Harper caught him now, or later. Jerome had a way of wiggling out of anything, up to and including his own death. Bruce dug his nails into his palms, and tried to squash down his rolling, roiling thoughts. Reigning them in was a challenge, one Bruce wasn’t sure he was up to at the moment, but he gave it his all. _Not helpful,_ he thought pointedly. He couldn’t afford for them to spiral away from him now, not when there was so much that needed to be done. Not when he was standing on the cusp of some horrible precipice that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to crawl his way out of if Jerome succeed in shoving him over the edge.

“Gordon!” A cop shouted, waving his arm to catch his attention. “One of the search teams found two people out by the lake. Says one of them looks like Valeska. They’re bringing them in now.”

“Jeremiah,” Bruce said, but there was no relief, not yet when he couldn’t be sure.

“Most likely,” Jim agreed, but the chance that it was Jerome playing one of his games hungover both of them. “Thanks, Carl. Harvey,” Jim said and Harvey caught his drift immediately.

“I’ll handle this.” He said and immediately hopped to rounding the emergency response team into a huddle.

“Alfred, would you call Lucius for us?” Jim asked.

“I’ll do that,” Alfred agreed. He didn’t need to speak for Bruce to know the look on his face. The unspoken, _take care, Master Bruce,_ and the, _I’m not the GCPD’s bloody butler_ look rolled into one.

“I’ll see you soon,” Bruce offered and then jogged after Jim. Jim didn’t try to send him away- he couldn’t- and Bruce didn’t mention that Jim had given up trying years ago.

Jim didn’t head back through he crowd, but further down the road. Bruce followed him, feet crunchy across gravel and blown out debris. There were dead worms on the ground, more than he would have expected. Recent rains had brought them to the surface, and the explosion had done the rest. Birds, if they returned to the forest any time soon, would have a fest on their hands.

The road wound through the trees, but Bruce and Jim didn’t have to follow it for long. A set of headlights appears through the trees and Jim placed himself in the middle of the road, where he’d be seen as soon as the car turned the corner. The cruiser eased along the road and then to a stop, exhaust drifting form the tail pipe and over to them in a heated wave. The headlights didn’t dim and the engine didn’t cut off, even as one of the cop stepped out of the car to greet Jim.

“They’re in the back,” he said, patting the roof of the car.Jim squinted at him through the light, wary for a moment before he recognized him.

Bruce only had to take a glance in to know. Even if Jerome could hide his scars, Bruce would be able to tell him and Jeremiah apart. Identical twins or not, there was no mistaking Jeremiah Valeska, and the pained, tired look on his face that only his brother could bring out of him.

The relief didn’t make his knees weak, but it shook something vulnerable loose in his chest.

“That’s not Jerome,” Jim said and dropped his hand away from his hip. He reached for the door while ordering, “Bernard, get an ambulances down here.”

Bernard ducked back into the car to radio for one at the same time Jim pulled open the door. Jeremiah climbed out of the car slowly, sluggish and exhausted. He looked rougher and dirtier than Bruce had ever seen him. His suit was covered in dirt, and he was holding his wrist close to his body. He had a scrap on his face, but Bruce couldn’t guess as to where he had gotten it. Despite that, his injuries were few and far better than the ones Ecco sported.

“Captain Gordon,” Jeremiah greeted. “Bruce,” he said, and managed to summon up a small smile despite the circumstances.

“Are you all right?” Bruce demanded, stepping closer to him as Bernard started to help Ecco out of cruiser. Bruce glanced at her, spotting the blood on her face and the gash in her thigh, before she was pulled out the other door. “And Ms. Frances?”

“Do you know where Jerome is?” Jim interrupted.

“He said something about a church.” Jeremiah answered. “Knowing him, and I unfortunately do, he was talking about the abandoned St. Rita church. They were planning on demolishing it tomorrow. I’m assuming that’s where he got the explosives.”

“That’s near the Narrows,” Jim said as the two pieces connected. He reached for his phone and tossed out a, “get yourself checked out,” he over his shoulder as he headed off, no doubt to grab Harvey and round up the cavalry.

“Are you all right?” Bruce repeated, eyes blinded for a moment by the ambulance that was creeping their way.

“A little worse for wear, but we’re both much better than we could have been.” Jeremiah’s face darkened and he looked out over the woods, at the place where the door to his bunker once stood. There was only a lumpy, concrete strewn crater now. “My maze is total loss.I suppose Jerome wins this one.”

Bruce followed his gaze and felt a second hand sense of sorrow. The maze had never been Bruce’s idea of a home, but it had been Jeremiah’s sanctuary for years. Bruce had even grown fond of it, perhaps through osmosis or exposure, over the years. He had long since lost track of how much time he had spent down there with Jeremiah, the two with their heads close together as they tried to change the world, one new design at a time.

“You and Ecco are alive,” Bruce said, looking at Jeremiah. “And your work is safe on the Wayne Enterprise servers. Your maze can be rebuilt. Jerome hasn’t won anything.”

Jeremiah’s glasses were cracked, Bruce realized when the red breaking lights illuminated them. Jeremiah offered him a fleeting smile. “True,” he said and was quiet for a long moment, watching as Ecco was loaded into the ambulance. He nodded his head at her, then at his own hand. “I should probably go with her.”

Bruce swallowed hard, but couldn’t argue. “You should,” he agreed, even though he didn’t want him to. He didn’t want to let Jeremiah out of his sight, not until Jerome was caught and the newly ignited fear of losing his best friend had faded. Yet he can’t bring himself to ask Jeremiah to stay with him, not when he was injured and Ecco needed a familiar face by her side.

That didn’t stop him from trailing after him. The only thing that stopped him was the paramedic who held up his hand, stalling him as Jeremiah climbed up into the ambulance, where Ecco was laying on a gurney and another paramedic was already patching her up. The woman glanced up to watch.

“Only one passenger,” the man told him with a sharp look. Bruce wasn’t sure if he was a stickler for the rules, or if this night was shaping up to be bad for everyone involved. For all he knew, the man could have seen the tabloids during Bruce’s party boy days and was gearing up to put a billionaire brat in his place.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Bruce told Jeremiah, taking a step back.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah started, probably to tell him that Bruce that it wasn’t necessary and that he would be fine. That Bruce didn't have to go out of his way for him, as he always did when Bruce happily inconvenienced himself for Jeremiah’s sake.

“I’ll see you soon,” Bruce repeated, watching Jeremiah even as one door was swung shut.

“Alright, Bruce,” Jeremiah said instead of protesting. He moved towards a seat, and that was the last of him Bruce saw before the door swung shut.

The door remained that way for only a moment before it opened, the other paramedic sticking her head out. “Jeff, don’t be a dick. Let the man ride with his husband. Jesus.” She rolled her eyes, then pushed the door open for Bruce. “Come on. Just don’t tell anyone I exceeded the passenger limit.”

Jeff threw up his hands and walked away. Bruce had a split second of confusion- _he must have misheard, what did she say?-_ before he climbed inside. He didn’t want her to change her mind, and there were far more pressing concerns to cloud his mind than what she might have said. He needed to call Alfred to let him know where he was, and Jim in a few hours for an update, and the hospital director to arrange for Ecco and Jeremiah to receive proper treatment, the kind you needed a reputation in order to receive in Gotham. There was more- always more- but then Jeremiah was looking up at him and giving him a painfully relieved smile and it all narrowed down to nothing.

Above everything else, he needed to make sure Jeremiah was okay. The other parts were going to have to wait.

Jeremiah slide down the bench, making room for Bruce to squeeze in next to him. Behind Bruce, the paramedic slammed the door and the driver took it as a signal to start the ambulance up. As the ambulance began its bumpy journey down the dirt road, Jeremiah’s hand dropped onto the sliver of bench between them. A moment later, Bruce’s hand followed suit, their fingers overlapping as the ambulance gave a jolt while going over a pot hole.

Across from them, Ecco heaved an exasperated sigh, and shut her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremiah stays at Wayne Manor, forgets to move out, and manages to hold Bruce's hand. Oh, and Bruce almost dies, but that's par for the course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god, this chapter got out of hand.

It wasn’t a fight. Jeremiah was very firm on that front, even in his own mind. He and Bruce never shouted at each other until their voices grew hoarse, never slammed out of the room, leaving the door shaking on its hinges, and they never broke anything or anyone. It was nothing at all like the fights that spotted his childhood memories, so it wasn’t a fight. If Jeremiah had to categorize it- and he absolutely did- it was a heated discussion at most.

A heated discussion that Jeremiah lost. One he continued to lose every time it came up. One that came up a little less often as several days turned to several weeks turned to several _months_.

There was a point where Jeremiah could say he was temporarily staying at Wayne Manor and there was a point where he had to admit that he was living at Wayne Manor. That point had sailed passed about five and a half months ago, roughly around the time that the Blue Room became Jeremiah’s room. Or maybe four months ago when Ecco let the lease lapse on the proxy apartment and moved into the staff wing of the manor with her cat Mr. Puddin’. It was definitely longer than three months ago when Bruce cleared several shelves filled with outdated encyclopedias out of his father’s office- Bruce’s office now- to make room for Jeremiah’s rescued and replaced books.

_Their office,_ Jeremiah sometimes let himself think before squashing that thought deep, deep down.

“It’s not an imposition,” Bruce said one night while they were working late. The window was open in spite of the summer rain that misted through at the slightest breeze. Jeremiah suspected that Bruce left it open for his benefit. The mundane truly became remarkable when you had gone without them for years on end.

Jeremiah left the window where he had been watching the play of shadows over the grounds and the night flowers blooming under the brisk drizzle. He sipped his scotch and sat his glass down on an updated copy of city building codes. Bruce had two books cracked open and a leather bound notebook spread open by his left hand. He didn’t look up from his research even when Jeremiah leaned against the desk and folded his arms.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah sighed. They had been talking around the issue again. Jeremiah didn’t want to leave, per se, but felt like he should. Depending on Bruce was as natural as breathing, but the idea of overstaying his welcome, of taking advantage of Bruce, whether it was his hospitality or his friendship, made Jeremiah feel sick. Bruce was his best friend and Jeremiah refused to use him even for something like a place to sleep.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce returned in the same tone. He sat his pen down and finally looked up, face as serious as Jeremiah had ever seen it. “If I wanted you to leave, I’d ask you to.” His gaze lingered for a moment before sliding away, over the book shelves, the blueprints, Jeremiah’s half empty glass of scotch. “It’s only been Alfred and me for so long. Having you and Ecco here has been… I don’t want the house to feel empty again.”

Jeremiah stared at him. The lamp light cast shadows over his face and softened the look of long carried grief into something bittersweet. He was well acquainted with the feeling. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and laid a hand over Bruce’s. The page crinkled under Bruce’s palm, his hand warm under Jeremiah’s. The feel of his hand wasn’t unfamiliar- their hands brushed often while they worked together, elbows bumping together, shoulders pressed against one another- but it wasn’t like this. It was never sustained contact, not since that long, aching ambulance ride all those months ago.

He wanted to say something profound. Maybe that he understood the ache of an empty home. Maybe promise to stay until the day Bruce wanted him to leave. Maybe to say that Wayne Manor, for all it’s straight forward hallways and gaping security flaws, felt almost like home and it was because Bruce was here.

Instead he said, “you can’t forget about Mr. Puddin’. He’s a vital part of this house hold.”

Bruce laughed just a little. Neither of them addressed the fact it was a little wet sounding.

“And Selina. She’s been coming around more often lately. If I had known the secret to getting her to visit was having a cat on the premise, thirteen year old me would have turned the manor into a cat sanctuary.”

The cat was undoubtedly a factor, though Jeremiah suspected Selina had other motives. An old friend, a place to sleep that demanded nothing of her, the unexpected rapport she had developed with Ecco. Their first meeting had been prickly, just as her and Jeremiah’s first meeting had been. Selina had been none too fond of the either of them, but something had shifted between her and Ecco. He supposed something had shifted between the two of them as well, if the merciless teasing was anything to go by. He couldn’t tell, truth be told.

“It’s never too late to adopt thirty cats, Bruce.” Jeremiah assured him and reluctantly withdrew his hand. His fingers glided over Bruce’s, keeping contact until the last possible second. He thought he felt Bruce’s hand shiver, but then Jeremiah was straightening where he stood. He straightened his shirt and went to pick up his scotch before the ice could water it down. He didn’t get far before the sound of his name pulled his attention back to Bruce.

“If… If you decided to finish your new maze, I would understand.” Bruce offered, voice pained like the words were being dragged out of his mouth by force.

Jeremiah thought of his maze, the plans for it he had been meaning to work on but never seemed to make time for. He thought of his other plans, the new dam he and Lucius were developing, the improved high security wing at Arkham he was meaning to consult Jim about, the Narrow’s housing project that Lee Thompkins hoped would save hundreds of lives. He thought of his and Bruce’s generators lighting up the city, the first wave of testing that would open a door to a greener future.

He thought, again, of all the things Bruce wasn’t saying.

“If I wanted to leave, I’d tell you.” Jeremiah replied and went to finish the last of his scotch.

-

The thing about living at Wayne Manor- properly living, instead of acting like an extended guest- was just how little actually changed. Jeremiah had realized a long time ago that he and Bruce were living in each other’s pockets, even back before his bunker turned into a crater. They ate together, spent the day together, stayed up late together. They often worked together, consulting each other on new ideas and potential pitfalls. Bruce was invaluable, his knowledge self-learned but indispensable. His ideas for Gotham, for expanding Wayne Enterprises, were inspiring. And while Jeremiah worried to no end about Bruce’s extracurricular investigations, it didn’t stop him from helping when they came about.

The only thing that changed was the fact that people knew where to find him. Of course, Jim Gordon had managed to find him pretty easily that first time, but at least Jeremiah had the wherewithal to tell him no at the time. The same couldn’t be said when it came to Bruce. From the moment they met, Jeremiah was willing to do anything for him. That hadn’t changed. Even if it was someone else asking on Bruce's behalf. 

“You’re going to have to lose the glasses,” Jim said, gesturing at his face as he peaked around a corner.

The brickwork building had once been a meat processing plant on the edge of the harbor, but it had long ago fallen into squalor. The building was crumbling, slowly collapsing into the river. The basement and part of the first floor were submerged flooded, in part from the rising river and in part from poor design. The water had dredged up the phantom smell of rancid meat and old blood, keeping it posed like oil atop the water. Mold and mildew grew on the walls and up the into the rafters. Graffiti worshiping Jerome was painted everywhere a person could reach and in some places that seemed impossible.

“I need them to see, _Detective._ ” Jeremiah bit out, stomach somersaulting and self preservation demanding to know exactly what he was doing. The thought of Bruce was the only thing he needed to crush it.

“Your brother doesn’t,” Jim said without looking at him.

“We’re identical-” Jeremiah started and immediately gave up. There was no point in arguing. Not when Bruce was in the middle of a fanatical cult trying to leverage his life for Jerome’s release. Again. Couldn’t they just wait for Jerome’s inevitable escape, like the rest of Gotham? Why did his brother’s cult have to be filled with highly motivated individuals? Jeremiah took off his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket.

“Fix your hair while you’re at it,” Harvey suggested from his other side.

“Do I need to rip off my face while I’m at it?” Jeremiah demanded. He raked a hand through his hair, doing his best to stand it on end. Jerome’s method seemed to be sticking a fork in a power socket. The building didn’t have power, but Jeremiah thought his hair was similar enough.

“If your brother ever gets his face fixed, we’re gonna have a problem,” Harvey muttered and then clapped on on the shoulder. “Now, a little piece of advice. You don’t seem to be much of an actor, so just remember that if you fuck this up we’re all gonna die.”

“ _Harvey_ ,” Jim admonished. “Jesus. Jeremiah, just distract them long enough for our officers to get into position.”

Jeremiah bit his cheek. There was no way in hell this was going to work. Not a single chance in hell. This was like building a skyscraper near a fault-line and not including earth-quake counter measures. Doomed to glorious failure.

He held out his hand, proud it wasn’t shaking. “Give me your knife, Detective. Now, please.”

Jim and Harvey shared a look before Jim knelt to pull it out of his ankle holster. He handed it over and Jeremiah slid it up his sleeve. He straightened his clothes, flipped open the top buttons of his shirt, and steadied himself.

Jeremiah stepped around the corner and forced a grin so wide it made his face hurt. “Is this party for little ole’ me?” He called out, going for jovial and landing closer to stressed shouting.

When they were children, back before their rotten little family caved in, Jeremiah and Jerome use to pretend to be each other. Their mother never paid them a lick of good attention and the circus had already painted them as hellions. Playing pranks was a way to pass the time, to get even, to have something just for the two of them. They had thought, at the time, that if the staff couldn’t tell which one had done it, it’d spare them both punishment. They were proven wrong more times than Jeremiah cared to remember.

That was a very long time ago and Jeremiah and Jerome had become two very different people. Jeremiah could be excused for being a little rusty.

“Jerome, is that you?” One of the followers called out. She had glow sticks looped all up and down her arms and dangling around her throat. She looked ghoulish in the green glow that surrounded in like an aura. The glow threw the gun hanging by a strap around her neck into sharp contrast and spilled out over the surrounding area.

Off to her right, tied up and dumped in a striped lawn chair, was a blurry but recognizable Bruce.

Jeremiah’s heart rattled about his chest. He couldn’t see if Bruce’s eyes were open or what state he was in. He wanted to rush across the room, to grab hold of Bruce and scour him for injuries. He held himself in check, but barely. He didn’t want to end the night by dying in a hail of bullets. He just needed to last a few minutes, to take it all one step at a time. He was a patient person. He could handle this.

He dropped his voice to a low rasp, meandering his way across the room as he did. “Well who else would it be? You all went through so much trouble, how could I not come see what all the fuss was about?”

“Did the police let you out?” She asked in confusion. What Jeremiah couldn’t make out from the nuances of her expression, he could make out in her voice.

“The mayor said there was no way he’d let you go!” Another follower shouted from the back.

Jeremiah squinted, trying to make out how many people were in the room. The shapes he could make out could be anything from people to ill placed coat racks. Without his glasses and a well lit room, there was just no telling. Jim hadn’t had a solid number, and a hostage situation meant playing the long and subtle game. Going in guns blazing was the last thing they wanted, the last thing Jeremiah wanted while standing dead center of the room, pretending to be his brother.

“Who said I needed help getting out? It’s Arkham! I can walk out of that place any time I want.”

“Then why don’t you?” She asked, still confused.

Jeremiah shrugged. “Everybody needs a vacation once in a while.”

Laughter rang out across the room and Glow Ghoul grinned. “Maybe I’ll check it out myself one day. It’s good to see you, Boss. Gotham isn’t the same without you around.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Jeremiah grinned back at her. “I’m the life of the party, aren’t I?”

He strode across the room towards her, pooling every bit of confidence he could muster up into it. The ground beneath his feet was wet, his footsteps splashing through puddles and echoing in the ruined building. There was the sound of water dripping not too far off, and the smell was starting to get to him. The ground sloped gradually downwards, and the water gradually encroaching over the tips of his shoes and up towards his ankles.

As he drew near, he could make out more of Bruce. He was still and silent, mouth duct-taped shut and eyes covered in a blindfold. Bruce wasn’t bound to the lawn chair like Jeremiah would have guessed; instead, his hands were bound behind his back. A rope was knotted around his legs like a pair of cuffs, one end snaking away to a form a net around a ball of concrete that balanced on the edge of a wide, endlessly black hole. Bruce was awake, and if Jeremiah wasn’t mistaken, was steadily working at loosening the binding around his hands.

“How’s our guest of honor doing?” Jeremiah asked, eyes only for Bruce. He stopped next to him, hands itching to reach out and push the blindfold off. He wanted to see his face, to reassure himself that Bruce was here, so close he could almost touch him. He wanted to get Bruce out of here, to put this- another in a long list of horrible, traumatizing events- behind them.

“He broke Ari’s collarbone. We had to gas him.”

_Gas him with what?_ It was well known that Jerome and Jonathan Crane had crossed paths in Arkham and had struck a deal or two. Jeremiah had always assumed it would burn out, like most criminal partnerships did in Gotham. There was no room for allies in the underworld, not with everyone scrambling to be top dog in a city caught in constant flux. The days of steady, organized crime were long behind them, dead along with Carmine Falcone and his old world crime lord colleagues.

“Did you now?” Jeremiah murmured, inching closer with every word. “How did he like that?” He asked and couldn’t stop himself from reaching out. He dropped his hands on Bruce’s shoulders. Beneath his hands, Bruce’s went ridged.

“Knocked him right out. Knocked Bell out too. We’re going to have to find some better gas masks.”

Jeremiah nodded, half listening as she continued to talk. Jeremiah was close enough to hear Bruce’s shallow breathing, to feel the flex of his muscles as his hands fisted and released. Jeremiah felt sleazy and uncomfortable in his own skin as he felt Jerome’s follower’s eyes on him. He leaned down, close enough that their cheeks almost touched, Bruce’s hair brushing against his face. He let one hand drop, skimming over Bruce’s bare arm and over the knot of rope biting into his wrists. Jeremiah had never been good at sleight of hand, but he really didn’t need to be, not this close. He let the knife slide into his hand and with a quick twist of his wrist, he had it pressed into Bruce’s open palm.

Bruce inhaled sharply, his hand clamping down on the knife before it could fall to the floor. Jeremiah gave his shoulder a squeeze. Voice low and soft, he murmured, “hello, Bruce.”

Bruce turned his head towards him, his breath tickling across Jeremiah’s face. Bruce’s shoulders went loose under his hand. Jeremiah wanted to linger, but didn’t dare. He pulled away slowly, every inch of distance feeling like peeling off a layer of skin.

He walked away from Bruce and towards Glow Ghoul, feeling the room’s attention shift with him. “Where’s the fireworks? You can’t have a party without fireworks.”

Her face lit up with the happy, furious joy of someone that loved mayhem and was about to cause a great deal of it. “We were gonna save them as a backup plan, but since you’re here, we can have some real fun. You’re gonna love it, Boss. They’re some real fine poppers.”

“You’re speaking my language.”

She started to speak, but didn’t get a word out, her eyes focusing on his dimly illuminated face. The one she could see much clearer than Jeremiah could see hers.

There was never exactly a plan, as much as Jim Gordon insisted, _save Bruce and don’t die_ counted as one. Given ten minutes, Jeremiah might have managed to come up with one. Ten more, and he could have come up with a backup and a fail-safe and maybe even a flawed contingency plan. Where Jerome loved when a plan went to hell and the thrill of danger that came with it, Jeremiah preferred to already have his enemy at check mate before he made the first move.

This is all to say that Jeremiah saw the moment the plan went to hell and was very aware of how little of a backup plan there was. He saw and his first thought wasn’t something helpful like how he could disarm Glow Ghoul, or if Bruce had managed to cut through is bindings in all of a few seconds. It wasn’t even if Jim and Harvey had managed to maneuver a team of police into the building and were slowly taking out cult members.

His only thought was the supremely unhelpful, _this wouldn’t be an issue if Jerome wore his damn glasses._

“Your face,” Glow Ghoul said.

“My face?” He parroted, eyes flickering around the building.

“Your face,” she repeated, voice somewhere between entranced and enraged. She took a step forward, grabbing him by the lapels. Her dangling gun bumped his hip. She leaned up on her toes, faces inches from his, and snarled, “you’re not Jerome.”

_Oh fuck._

A gun shot went off, the booming echo striking Jeremiah’s ears hard enough to make them ring. He flinched, head snapping to the side to watch as Jim brought his gun down, aiming it at no one in particular. “GCPD!” He shouted, doing a perfect job of making himself into a target. “We have the building surrounded. Lay your weapons down and put your hands up.”

Glow Ghoul swung her head between Jim and Jeremiah. Her hand tightened, pulling the fabric hard. A low, angry noise came from her nose and Jeremiah saw the moment she made her choice.

“Well,” Jeremiah said, shifting his stance, and bringing his arms up. “You’re not wrong.”

Everything that happened next seemed instantaneous. A second shot went off, a bullet embedding into crumbling brick. The followers reacted like a flock of startled birds, some scattering and some going on attack. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremiah saw Bruce yank the blindfold off, tattered ropes still clinging to his wrists. He pulled the duct tape off his mouth, then ducked low, sawing at the rope around his legs.

“Dunk him!” Glow Ghoul shouted, and then grunted when Jeremiah yanked her forward, bringing his knee up and into her stomach. Her hold broke and Jeremiah shoved her, sending her sprawling in the dirty water.

Jeremiah turned, heart hammering wildly as gun fire lit the area. Jeremiah dropped low, eyes straining in the rapid, lightning strike flicker of muzzle flashes and the overwhelming, ear rending noise. Water soaked into his clothes, washed over his hands, and his palms scrapped the gritty, rough concrete floor beneath him.

He looked for Bruce in the darkness and saw a shadow loom behind him. Bruce was on his feet, one leg unbound, but the other still wrapped in rope. He swung out at the shadow, the knife missing by intention, but it was enough to drive the shadow back a step.

The shadow moved, taking a step away from Bruce. He kicked out his foot, hitting the precariously placed concrete ball. It wobbled, tipped, and fell. The concrete dropped into the darkness, the rope snapped taunt, and Bruce was yanked off his feet. Bruce threw out his arms to catch himself a moment too late, the knife splashed into the water, and then Bruce was dragged over the edge.

“Bruce!” Someone shouted, and Jeremiah wasn’t sure if his name was torn from his own throat or from Jim’s. It didn’t matter. Jeremiah scrambled forward, his hands fumbling in the water in wild desperation, heedlessly scrapping his fingertips raw on the stone until he found the knife. He snatched it up, the open blade flaying the skin on his palm, and darted towards the hole. The hole was a chunk of the floor cut out by a pickaxe, crumbling at the edges, leading down into a darkness so deep he couldn’t hope to see the bottom. It was a basement turned drowning chamber. An air bubble popped to the surface and Jeremiah dropped over the edge without a thought.

The water was cold and utterly lightless. The water burned his eyes, his heart beating a terrified tempo in his ears, and the walls seemed to creep closer to surround and suffocate him. His clothes were heavy and dragging, his shoes feeling like weights. A bubble of air brushed against his face and he dove past it, swimming deeper into the murky, polluted water.

Bruce wasn’t directly beneath the hole, but had been dragged down the slope by the rolling concrete, only halted by the far wall. Jeremiah couldn’t see his shape in the darkness, but he felt the hand that reached for him, grappling onto him and dragging him near. Bruce found his hand in the dark, tugging him close and guiding him to the rope cutting into his leg. Jeremiah followed it, finding the bit that connected to the concrete. Bruce braced, pulling the rope taunt, and Jeremiah caught hold of it and started sawing.

The knife was well honed, but the rope was wet and well made. It frayed slowly, every second feeling like an eternity. The water pressed against him, the air in his lungs trying drive him upwards. Bruce’s hands found his shoulders and clung. Jeremiah’s heart thudded painfully, his lungs ached, then burned. Everything in him screamed for air, but he refused to oblige. The knife slipped, skipping off the rope and across his knuckles. He clenched his jaw, reset the knife, and continued.

Jeremiah’s mind, normally racing with a thousand different thoughts, was completely silent. There was no room for anything else but the way the blade moved over the slowly spiraling, splitting rope. The way a strand the size of his pinky was the only thing that stood in their way. The way it snapped when the blade finally passed through it.

Jeremiah dropped the knife and grabbed Bruce’s hands off his shoulders. They kicked off the cement together, legs so close they almost brushed as they cut through the water. They aimed for a flicker of light, light that grew brighter and brighter until Jeremiah recognized it as a flashlight pointing into the water. They kicked and clawed their way towards it, grace and proper swimming lost to the frantic panic of pounding hearts and lungs ready to burst.

The light seemed to grow further the away the closer they got, the light wavering over the water, scattering as the water’s surface rippled-

They broke the surface so abruptly, bobbing up like buoys, that Jeremiah didn’t dare breathe for a second. The two of them floundered in the water, crowding the edges of the hole as the water tried to suck them back down. Bruce ripped the duct tape off his mouth, heaving in lungfuls of air, coughing as water went up his nose and down the back of his throat.

Hands reached down in the water, reeling them up and over the edge. They collapsed next to each other, water still lapping around their ankles as their feet dangled over the edge. Water streamed from Jeremiah’s hair and into his eyes, into his open, gasping mouth. His eyes were watering and his nose running. His ears popped as water trickled out of them, the muffled, warbling voices becoming clear. Bruce was hacking, a gag wrenching it’s way up his throat as he tried to catch his breath. Someone was thumping him on the back like he had swallowed wrong and that would help. Someone was asking them both if they were okay, worried and almost fatherly, but it all seemed very far away.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce gasped, his voice raw and rasping, but it was startling clear compared to every thing else. His hand grabbed at Jeremiah’s arm as Jeremiah pushed himself upright, head reeling and body feeling off balanced. “Are you all right?”

Jeremiah caught Bruce’s hand, clasping it tightly in his grip to ground himself. “Me? What about you? Are you okay?” He demanded, finding his voice unexpectedly hoarse. He squinted at Bruce, taking in the way his hair plastered itself across his face, water running down his pale, shaken face. His sharp features were soften by the dark, blurred by Jeremiah’s sight. Still, Jeremiah caught an unfamiliar expression flicking across his face a moment before Bruce’s arms found their way around his neck.

Jeremiah gasped, then squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring Jim Gordon hovering just behind Bruce, and all the cops swarming the area. He clutched Bruce close, holding him as firmly as he dared.

Something like a laugh worked it’s way out of Bruce’s throat. “Your Jerome impression needs some work.”

Jeremiah let out a shocked, completely inappropriate laugh. “I would rather we avoid this situation all together.”

“I completely agree,” Bruce agreed and started to pull away.

Jeremiah didn’t want to let him go. He was starting to shake, adrenaline fading in a sickening rush. He just wanted to hold Bruce close, so close that no one could snatch him away again. Jeremiah forced himself to let go and started patting his pockets. He was stunned to find that his glasses were where he had stashed them.

“Bruce, are you okay?” Jim asked. “Jeremiah?”

“We’re fine, Jim,” Bruce assured him, reaching up to accept Jim’s offered hand.

“Just dandy, Detective,” Jeremiah responded, trying his best to clear the water off his glasses. He slipped them on, peering through the water drops as he got to his feet.

It looked like the police had won, as much as that term could be applied to an all out fire fight. Glow Ghoul was gone- _bad news-_ but a great deal of followers were being put in cuffs and escorted to the hospital. Jim spoke to Bruce in a low, hushed voice. Jeremiah didn’t hear him, eyes being drawn back to the hole.

_Fuck,_ he thought and closed his eyes for a moment. Often times, when all the horrible possibilities of what could have happened, what still might happened, pressed too tightly into his mind, he would drink too much scotch and fall asleep with a record playing. As a change of pace, he was assaulted by the irresistible desire for a cup of Alfred’s tea.

“We need to go to the police station,” Bruce told him, drawing his attention back. Jim had disappeared somewhere, likely issuing orders and trying to wrap up this whole fiasco as fast as possible.

Jeremiah grimaced. “Witness report?”

“Of course.” His eyes went to to Jeremiah’s hair and his hand followed. The first touch made Jeremiah still. He felt the hair on his neck rise as Bruce swept his sopping wet hair back and to the side, letting it flop into some semblance of his normal hair style.

Jeremiah’s gave Bruce a puzzled look, ignoring the way his heart pitter pattered in his chest. Stress really did do unusually things to one’s body.

Bruce gave him a lopsided smile and didn’t bother to explain. “Let’s go find Harvey. I want to go home.”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah agreed. “Me too.”

-

Bruce wasn’t waiting for Jeremiah in the lobby when he was finished his report. Jeremiah stood on the steps overlooking the GCPD bullpen, shivering uncontrollably. The GCPD was hot. The air conditioning in the building outdated and the summer air coming in through the doors stifling. Heat was wafting off asphalt in great waves, even as the clocks started to strike midnight. The blanket around Jeremiah’s shoulders was soggy and dripping, his hair only just starting to dry. He took it off and folded it, holding it in his arms as he crossed them over his chest. His hands trembled and he stuffed them in his armpits.

Jeremiah’s signature was still wet on the witness report and he was feeling shaky. It was late and he was exhausted. Wayne Manor and his bed therein called to him like a siren song.

Jeremiah side-eyed the cultists clustered in the jails cells. He tried to ignore the wary looks the some of the cops were giving him. He was a common visitor to the GCPD these days, mostly falling into step with Bruce or visiting Jim Gordon. The shifts often overlapped at the GCPD, but that didn’t mean they all ran together. For some, Jeremiah was a potential enemy and nothing more.

At the end of the day, no matter how far into the light Bruce Wayne dragged him, Jeremiah was never going to escape his own face or his brother’s shadow. Gotham wasn’t going to let him forget it, anymore than Jeremiah was going to let himself.

Jeremiah jumped when someone appeared at his elbow. Harper stared at him, tired expression quirking into amusement. “Been some night, hasn’t it?”

“When isn’t it?” Jeremiah sighed. The sad part was he was starting to grow accustomed to these kind of nights. After a while, the shock value wears off. Like jump scares, you start expecting them. It was the trauma you couldn’t shake.

“I suppose you won’t accept a ride back to Wayne Manor?” She asked her eyes flickering to the bullpen, before settling to study him.

“Thank you, but I’ll wait for Bruce.” A beat. “And Alfred, I suppose.” It was surprising he wasn’t there already. It seemed like hours ago that Jim Gordon had come bursting into Wayne Manor, announcing Bruce’s abduction and a harebrained scheme of getting him back. They had left Alfred furious and ready for a fight.

_Damn._ Jeremiah had really wanted that tea.

The amusement bloomed. “Alright, Lover Boy. You can wait in Jim’s office until then.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Jeremiah breathed, the relief washing over him. He didn’t question the nickname. It wasn’t the strangest- or the worst- thing a GCPD officer had called him. He slipped past her when she pushed the door open for him. Jim’s office was familiar and empty and blessedly silent. He reached for the chair, angling it towards the door.

“Don’t mention it,” she told him. “Just do me a favor. When Pennyworth shows up, you take care of him. Deal?”

She might as well ask him to be canon fodder. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks.” She reached for the door, starting to pull it shut. “I’ll let your husband know you’re waiting for him in here when he gets through.”

Jeremiah, one hand on the arm of the chair to steady himself as he eased into it, felt his hand slip. He dropped into it heavily, the chair skidding a several inches across the floor.

“My what?” He asked the closed door, completely floored.“My what?” He repeated to the empty room.

_She was teasing_ , he thought. _Or you misheard._

He pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes. God, he was tired. He forcibly turned his mind away, focusing on more useful thoughts. Anything that wasn’t the way his heart had jumped at her words or the way a flush continued to crawled across his cheeks at the mere memory. He could parse through what she had said later, wearing the memory her words thin in his head when he couldn’t stand to try sleeping through another nightmare.Until then, he was going to sit still and wait for Bruce and work on his plan for getting some of Alfred’s tea.

That, at least, seemed like a safe use of his time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of stoic Ecco earning Selina's approval (and eventual love) simply by owning a cat makes me laugh. Also, Ecco & Alfred bonding by working out together and bitching about the sheer amount of pining happening in Wayne Manor. It happens. Off screen, but it happens. 
> 
> Edit note because I forgot to add this joke: 
> 
> "You said it was never too late to adopt thirty kids."   
> "Cats, Bruce. I said cats."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2, because this chapter was gonna end up being like 8k if I didn't split it.

“I want to show you something,” Bruce said one evening. It was probably more accurate to call it early morning, though the sun was only just starting to brighten the perpetual smog that cloaked Gotham. It was several weeks after the kidnapping fiasco and the only reminder that remained was fresh scars and a handful of sleepless nights, but that was nothing new. 

Bruce had been mulling the idea over in his head on and off for a while. Mostly in the evenings when he would retire to bed to stare at his ceiling until morning came or sleep claimed him. The idea had drifted into the liminal space between waking and dreaming and lingered there, like many of his thoughts about Jeremiah did. He turned it over in his mind often, wearing it thin and soft, and using it as both a lullaby and a talisman to keep nightmares away. It was a comforting thought turned desperate need and he wasn’t sure how to quiet it back to sleep. 

He had thought convincing Jeremiah to stay at Wayne Manor would be enough. It had been a matter of outstubborning him, but Bruce was good at being stubborn. Really, getting Jeremiah to willing live at Wayne Manor- to get him to give up his plans on leaving- was more than Bruce could ask for. And yet, there was some indescribable line between living somewhere and calling that place home, and that line was driving Bruce to frustration. For all the settling Jeremiah had done- his books on the study shelves, blueprints tacked up on the board behind the desk, rolled up blueprints poking out of the paper basket like an origami bouquet- he still trod lightly though the house, leaving little to no evidence of his presence. 

Bruce didn’t know the first thing about turning a residence into a home. Wayne Manor sometimes didn’t even feel like home to him. There were days where he’d walk into a room and realize he hadn’t stepped foot in it in years. So many rooms had become still portraits of the days his parents had once inhabited them and yet nothing of them lingered there. There were no comforting ghosts haunting the halls of Wayne Manor, stirring up memories in their wake like a wiff of his mother’s faded perfume could, or a glance of his father’s neat penmanship in the corners of well-loved books often did. Wayne Manor had fallen still and lifeless after his parents deaths and Bruce desperately wanted it to breathe again. He wanted to walk into a room and find it changed, to know someone besides him had been there. Alfred cleaned, but so rarely left things laying about that it was like he wasn't even there most days. Bruce wanted signs of life from someone other than himself. He didn’t care if it was just cat hair on the furniture, or a window left cracked open, or pens on a coffee table. He wanted them and he had no idea how to achieve them. 

More than that, he others to call Wayne Manor home. He wanted _Jeremiah_ to call it home. He wanted Selina to stay for more than a few hours at a time and for Ecco to understand that her place there didn't hinge on Jeremiah’s presence. He didn't understand his desire, couldn't name the restless frustration that drove him on, or the reason behind it all. If he could, perhaps he could find a means of exorcising it. But instead it plagued his thoughts and haunted his dreams. 

“Bruce, what is this place?” Jeremiah asked, his steps cautious as they descended into the tunnels beneath Wayne Manor. His voice echoed off the stone, ricocheting down the seemingly endless tunnels until it faded out completely. His hand trailed down the old wrought iron railing, finding decade old dust and blooming rust spots. Up above, classical music played in the study. 

Bruce fought down the nervous, giddy feeling bounding about his chest and tried to slow his steps. His flashlight’s beam bounced across the walls, over old damage to the tunnel that Bruce and Alfred hadn’t wanted to risk having fixed. It had been years since he had even opened the passage, and even longer since he had shared it’s existence with someone. He wasn’t something he thought of often anymore. When it had occurred to him, it seemed like a forgone conclusion that he was going to share it with Jeremiah. It was the other part that had come later. 

“Watch the door,” Bruce warned, stepping on and then over it. 

“What door?” Jeremiah asked a second before he stumbled. He grabbed Bruce’s shoulder to steady himself, cursing softly. “Sorry. Bruce, why is there a door on the floor?” 

“Me and Alfred blew it off the hinges. It was the only way to get it open.” Bruce suppressed a smile when he heard Jeremiah’s disbelieving mutter. Jeremiah’s hand left a trail of warmth as it slid off Bruce’s shoulder and down his arm. His hand cupped Bruce’s elbow and remained there as he leaned forward to peer at the damaged doorjamb. 

“Couldn’t you have used a blow torch? A bomb could have damaged the manor’s foundations.” 

“I didn’t think about it at the time.” Bruce admitted. If memory served, he hadn’t been thinking about much except for his repeated failed attempts at getting the door open. 

Jeremiah’s hand slipped up his arm and Bruce relinquished the flashlight to him. The light swept the rock walls, over the abandoned computers and medical supplies as Jeremiah explored the room. Everything was exactly where Bruce remembered it was, even the lone cobweb from a rogue spider. The far wall still had the person shaped damp spot that never dried and there was still a musty smell. Gray light found it’s way inside through cracks and crevices, as did a damp breeze. 

Bruce went to one of the standing lights Alfred had left down there and flipped it on, flooding the room with light. Jeremiah clicked off the flashlight and laid it to the side. 

“What is all this?” Jeremiah asked distractedly as he fiddled an open case full of butterfly knives. “Was it meant to be a safe room at one point? Most of these things are a decade out of date.” 

“I think my grandfather dug the tunnel during the Cold War, but I can’t be sure. Me and Alfred never found any records and the blueprints didn’t reveal any clues. I wasn’t even aware of it’s existence until I was thirteen.” 

Jeremiah made a half aborted gesture at the room before asking, “were these your parents’ things?” 

“My father’s,” Bruce answered. “This was his secret. Before his death, he had begun to investigate the corruption at Wayne Enterprises. This is where he kept it all.” 

“Is this why...?”

“In part,” Bruce said and leaned against the desk. He had spoken at length about Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Assassins. Their hold on the city had faded after Ra’s’ death. Without the Court of Owls holding Gotham by it’s throat and the crime families mostly dead, they actually had a chance at saving Gotham. 

Jeremiah’s eyes wandered, but he came to stand by Bruce’s side, arm brushing Bruce’s as he leaned against the desk. Bruce glanced at his hands, at the butterfly knife he was turning over and over, and looked away. “Is this why you brought me down here? To show me this?” 

Bruce folded his arms and hoped the nervous fluttering in his chest subsided. He watched Jeremiah out of the corner of his eye as he spoke. “It’s not a maze, but it’s yours if you want it. We can turn it into a proper safe room, or expand it into something more. If we dig a little more, we can link this up to a cave system that runs underneath the estate.” 

Jeremiah sat the desk and turned to look at him. “Are you sure, Bruce? This was your father’s place.” 

Everything Bruce owned was once his father’s. This room had given shown him a side of his father he hadn’t known, had feared hadn’t even exited. It had restored his shaken faith in the man. His father hadn’t always done the right thing, but underneath it all he had tried to be a good man. He had wanted to fix Gotham, and Bruce’s parents had given their lives in the attempt. In the end, Bruce didn’t need the room. He carried their legacy, their memories, with him. His actions were the only, the best, requiem he could give them. 

And if it would give him even a fraction of a feeling of permanence, that Jeremiah was putting down roots at Wayne Manor, was happy and safe here, Bruce was more than willing to give it up. Jeremiah could turn the manor into the Winchester House and Bruce would be happy about it. 

Jeremiah half smiled, turning his face up towards the morning light. “I suppose I’ll think of something to do with all this.”

“I”m looking forward to seeing it.” And he was. He didn’t know what Jeremiah was going to do, but he was sure it was going to be something spectacular. 

“Do you still have the blueprints of Wayne Manor?”   
  
“They’re in the study. I can get them for you.”

Jeremiah smiled at him. “If you wouldn’t mind. I want to see what we’re working with upstairs before I start planning anything down here.” 

As Jeremiah went to retrieve the flashlight, Bruce slipped the knife into his pocket. He left the light on as they climbed the steps, Jeremiah leading the way. Warm lamplight spilled in through the open fireplace. It wasn’t quite the flicker of a warm firelight, but it was welcoming. The study itself seemed too bright after the dimness of the tunnels. 

The blueprints were tucked away on the top shelf behind the desk. Bruce climbed the ladder to grab the old book. It had taken a bit of negotiation to get it back from the historical society, but there was little money couldn’t buy in Gotham. Musky book close and dropped down. 

“What would you like me to do with these tabloids?” Jeremiah asked, pausing from clearing away space on the desk. His brows were knit in a puzzled frown, staring at the stack like he was unsure if they belonged in there or not. 

“I’ll move them,” Bruce offered, sitting the book on the edge. He started gathering them up and explained, “Selina leaves them here when she comes by.” 

“Selina reads the tabloids?” Jeremiah asked, seemingly more surprised at the idea of Selina reading them than the idea of Bruce reading them. 

“She says the fashion sections are good for finding new marks,” Bruce said, and while he wasn’t pleased with that being part of the reason, it was only half the answer. 

It had started as somewhat of a joke when they were children. Selina would plaster his father’s desk in tabloids, most of them relating to the Waynes in one way or another, and would then sit back and watch as Bruce worked himself into a tizzy over the terrible, downright irresponsible reporting. When he wasn’t around, she would scrawl comments in the corners and leave them for him to find. It had become a tradition of sorts, something that Selina and Bruce shared throughout the years even when circumstances pulled them apart. It was only as an adult that Bruce found another value to them. 

Bruce had always made it a point to keep up with the news. He read the Gotham Gazette every day, watched the news in the morning and late evenings, and kept tabs on Jim’s latest cases when he could get away with taking a peak. He kept an ear out for gossip at the high society events that he attended at Alfred’s behest, and he trusted Lucius to help monitor Wayne Enterprises’ latest acquisitions for any irregularities. Gotham moved at the whim of mobsters, murderers, and bored socialites and spotting a catalyst was the best way of anticipating their trajectory and cutting them off before things could get bloody. And as much as Bruce agreed with Alfred’s assessment of tabloids- that they were gutter trash that hadn’t hit the ground yet- Bruce had found useful information in them a time or two. Nothing sold papers faster than sex and violence and Gotham had that in spades. 

(Bruce would give a large chunk of his fortune to never again read an article theorizing about his sex life again.) 

Selina’s vandalism had upped it’s ante over the past few months and Bruce was finding it a little hard to find the time to parse through all them. Since the kidnapping, they had really started to stack up. He gathered them up into a pile, eyes skimming headlines as he went. He had every intention of shoving them in his desk for later perusal, when something caught his eye. He slowed and in a moment was spreading out the papers again. 

“Bruce?” Jeremiah asked, the last few papers held in his hand. “What is it?” 

Bruce stared down at the papers, the pattern spread over issues from the past couple of months. On an issue only a week old a somewhat familiar face stared up at him. “How do you feel about going to visit a friend of mine?” He asked, tearing the front page off, and folding it into a neat little square that he slid into his pocket. He was already going for their jackets before he heard Jeremiah’s curiously assent. 

-

Margret Sinclaire was wealthy a woman heading into her mid-seventies, with long silver hair up-swept into a bun and a wardrobe full of tailored suits. A childhood of etiquette lessons and finishing school had left her articulate and polished, carrying herself through life with a well honed grace. She was old world money, her mother’s lineage tracing back to the 1600s and Captain Jon Logerquist, the founder of Gotham himself. 

Despite the high status her family had always enjoyed, Margret Sinclaire was a remarkably kind and down to earth woman. She had been one of the first to offer heartfelt condolences after his parent’s deaths, had sent hundreds of dollars worth of flowers, and had stood next to Alfred at the funeral in order to act as shield between him and the questions that had assaulted him from all sides. 

Bruce liked to believe he knew her, at least past the extent of causal acquaintances. They traveled in the same circles, attended the same charity events, and worked towards the same goal of bettering Gotham through their massive family fortunes. She always greeted him like a family friend- and Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if he found out she was a distant cousin connected by some forgotten relative- and always inquired about the well-being of his chosen family. She was familiar and yet if Bruce hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed it. There was something deeply wrong with Margret Sinclaire and she was doing her best to hide it. 

“Bruce, it’s so nice to see you again. It’s been so long. How have you been?” She asked as she welcomed them into her home. It was early, almost rudely so, but she was as well put together as ever. 

“I’ve been well, Ms. Sinclaire. And you?” 

“Fine, dear. Busy with my charities as always,” she told him, a strained smile clinging to her lips. Her eyes strayed over his shoulder and towards the still open door. She grew still, eyes growing wide with startled fright.

Bruce put on his best, most charming smile and beckoned Jeremiah forward from where he lingered, one foot practically holding the door open for a speedy escape. He had agreed to join Bruce readily, as he often did, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to face down Bruce’s social circle. As long as his brother’s reputation proceeded him, Jeremiah would always be caught at a disadvantage. It didn’t matter how often the papers sung his praises for his work in Gotham, some marks couldn’t be erased. 

“Ms. Sinclaire, I want to introduce you to my friend Jeremiah Valeska. I’m sure you’ve heard about Wayne Enterprises’ Green Life Initiative. Jeremiah is the mind behind it all.” 

She regained her composure quickly, pulling it around her like a well-loved coat. “Mr. Valeska, I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she said, offering him her hand. “You some fine work for Gotham.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Sinclaire, but I couldn’t do it without Bruce’s support. The Green Initiative is just as much his brainchild as mine.” 

“And how is it coming along?” 

“Several projects are still in the planning phases, but our energy project is going quite well. We hope to be supporting the energy needs of most of New England by the end of the decade.” 

Ms. Sinclaire gave a genuine delighted laugh, one that seemed to have been dragged out of her. “Ambitious as any Wayne. I look forward to seeing the amazing things your partnership will bring. Come along, we can continue this in the parlor.” 

Ms. Sinclaire’s parlor was decorated in cream colors. Airy and bright, with two terrace doors thrown open, Bruce understood why Ms. Sinclaire’s house was often the envy of the neighborhood. 

Ms. Sinclaire settled herself on a chaise lounge, while Jeremiah and Bruce perched on the edge of a sofa. It was a tight fit, their legs pressing against each other. Jeremiah was stiff by his side, back straight and fingers rubbing at the rough material over his knee. Bruce nudged him with his knee, watching as Ms. Sinclaire used her phone to painstakingly send a message to her cook, requesting refreshments. 

“As much as I adore technology, I wish they could make it just a mite bigger,” she said with a wry smile, laying her phone on the coffee table face down. “Now, what brings you here, Bruce? It’s been such a long time since you visited.” 

“How’s your grandson, Ms. Sinclaire? He’s fifteen now, isn’t he?” Bruce asked, watching her face closely. It was there and gone in a blink, a twist of her mouth, a damp sheen in her eyes. 

There, Bruce thought, but felt little satisfaction at having his suspicions confirmed.

“Christopher is turning fifteen in a few weeks,” she said, her smile struggling to stay on her face, her words just this side of unsteady. “He recently received an award from the Gotham Tribune. He’s a wonderful poet.” 

“You must be very proud,” Bruce murmured. He reached over, stilling Jeremiah’s hand. “Is there any chance I can give him my congratulations in person?”

“He’s not here at the moment,” She said, glancing down and back up. “You know how it is at that age. Friends, school, there’s always something keeping you out. You’re rarely ever home.” 

Bruce and Jeremiah shared a look.

“Has he been home recently?” Jeremiah asked. 

She looked between the two of them. “What is all this about? What are you really asking?” 

Bruce shifted, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out the tabloid. He held it for a moment, watching her track the paper, before Bruce smoothed it out over his knee. He laid it on the table and sat back. 

“A tabloid? Bruce, you know you can’t put any stock into these.” She said, reaching out to push it back towards him. Her hand was shaking as she did so. 

“I don’t,” Bruce told her. “Especially not about you sending away your grandson to boarding school. But this isn’t the only abrupt departure being reported. There’s four others over the past two months, all wealthy teenagers. What’s going on, Margret?” 

“Nothing’s going on,” she assured him, but her eyes were pooling with tears. She clasped her hands together, gripping them tightly to keep them from shaking. “Christopher is fine. It’s just gossip.” 

Bruce caught her hands in his. They were cold and thin and they grasped his tightly. “Margret, where is Christopher?” 

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know.” 

-

The story came out in bits and pieces. Bruce sat by her side, letting her wring his hand to pieces, as she repeated it all to Jim Gordon in the privacy of his office. Jeremiah stood back from the proceedings, drinking a cup of coffee, and looking distinctly uncomfortable by the proceedings. Harvey, hands on his hips, sported the same look. 

Ms. Sinclaire had picked up the pieces of her composure and stitched them back together until nary a crack showed. Her voice was steady as she painted a picture of children being stolen out of their beds in the dead of night, of their phone calls home that sounded like whispered dreams. Five children over the course of eight and a half weeks, all taken, all presumably alive. 

“Why keep quiet about all this? Why not come to the police immediately?” Jim asked. His hands were folded on his desk, face kind but eyes frustrated. 

“Why do you think, Captain Gordon?” She demanded. “They made the children tell us what would happen to them if we sought police assistance.” She clenched Bruce’s hand and closed her eyes. “They made them dream up their own deaths. I had to listen to my Christopher think he was choking to death over and over again. Do you have any idea what it’s like, hearing your child die?” 

_Dreams_ , Bruce noted again and then _nightmares_. Jonathan Crane was still at large, even months after Jerome’s last debacle, but he had been lurking quietly in the shadows instead of stirring up trouble. Whispers said said he living somewhere on the outskirts of Gotham, cooking up something new and terrible in a secret lab, but that was the story every time he disappeared. He had made himself into a boogeyman and Gotham’s rumor mill did the rest. Crane’s business was fear, but this was something else. Stealing children out of their beds like a sinister Peter Pan was someone else’s game.

“No, Ms. Sinclaire. I can’t even imagine what it’d be like. If you all agreed to keep quiet, how did this reach the tabloids?” 

“Trisha O’Neal- her daughter Alana was the first to be taken- had a reporter come knocking, asking about where her daughter was. Alana has a way of baiting the tabloids, always pulling one stunt or another. Trisha lied about sending Alana away. It’s what people in our circle expect us to do for misbehaving children,” she spat, disgust in every word. She calmly carried on. “Trisha thought it’d be safer to play into their expectations. That by feeding the tabloids some shameful lie, we could protect the truth. It doesn’t make sense from the outside, but you must understand that none of us have been thinking clearly.” 

“How did you find out about each other?” Harvey asked from the corner. 

“The children told us. Many of them have gone to the same school or have met in passing at social events. I’ve known Trisha for over thirty years, since she was only a small child. She use to have play-dates with my daughter Caroline.” 

“And where is your daughter, Ms. Sinclaire? Could she have been involved in this?” Harvey carried on. 

“She’s dead, Detective Bullock.” She said shortly. 

Bruce had heard of her death only in passing, both too young and too sheltered to truly know the details. The resulting case for medical negligence and malpractice that had lead to a manslaughter charge was much more clear than his parents simple explanations had been. 

“What about anyone else? Is there anyone you can think of who might be involved? Any enemies? Can you think of a reason why they could have been taken?” 

“We’re rich and our children were vulnerable. What more reason could their be?” 

“Have they asked for a ransom?” 

“No.” She said, swallowing hard. 

“Then this isn’t about money. This is about something else. We need to find that something else.” 

“You need to find my boy.” 

“We will, Ms. Sinclaire. But we need to find a connection, a common link on why these children were taken. Now can you think of anything? What do their parents do? Where do they frequent? Was there any incidents, no matter how small, that occurred prior to this?”

“If I could, I would tell you Captain. But there’s nothing. Everything was fine before this started. It was business as usual.” 

“There must be something,” Jim insisted and Bruce could see Ms. Sinclaire growing frustrated. 

“Are any of you involved in organized crime?” Bruce asked, staring her in the face. The thought had been bubbling in his mind, was always bubbling in his mind when he mingled among Gotham’s elite. The city had been built atop the bones of it’s citizens, put there by gangsters and petty thugs. There wasn’t an old family in Gotham that didn’t have a history entrenched in bloody and violence and the Waynes, as much a Bruce wished it weren’t true, weren’t the exception. 

“Bruce,” she said, looking honestly hurt be the question. “No. I would never support mob activity. Gotham needs help, not criminals.” 

Bruce searched her face, trying to pick out a lie. He couldn’t find one, but Bruce wasn’t sure if that was by choice or because she was telling the truth. 

“What about politics?” Jeremiah asked, sitting his coffee down on the filing cabinet. He picked up Bruce’s train thought and was following it down the line. “Do you ever fund any political campaigns?” 

“You’ve seen the people Gotham elects. I’ve yet to meet a candidate I truly believed could do some good for this city.” 

“But you believe in its charities,” Jeremiah said, looking thoughtful. “What type of charity work do you do, Ms. Sinclaire?” 

“I vet my charities thoroughly, Mr. Valeska.” She frowned a little to herself. “This seems a little too vague to be a connection, but all our families are rather involved in charity. Several of us have been actively working with charities related to health care.”

It was not a jump of intuition, but more of knowing what kind of person Ms. Sinclaire was, and where she would put her money. _Arkham,_ Bruce thought, and _of course it’s related to Arkham._ But how and why was another question entirely, one that he couldn’t quiet grasp. This had to be about money, and yet no money had exchanged hands. No demands had been made. What was the purpose of this?

“By ‘health care’,” Harvey asked, quoting the words, “do yo mean Arkham?” 

Ms. Sinclaire’s eyes flickered and for the first time she looked ashamed. She looked at Bruce apologetically. Her answer was not the one he expected, and all he could do was stare at her.

“No. I halted my donations several months ago.”

“Why?” Bruce asked, the question dragged out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Ms. Sinclaire clasped his hand tightly, looking sorrowful. Before she could speak, the door opened, starting more than one person in the room as they all twisted around to see who it was.

“Oswald?” Jim asked, started rising to his feet. 

Oswald Cobblepot leaned against the door as he shut it. His perfectly tailored suit was in a state of disarray and his face was blanched a sickly white, except for two spots of color on his cheeks. He looked like he had been shouting, and his voice confirmed it. 

“Jim, I need you help,” Oswald said, voice raw as it scraped its way out of his throat. 

“Oswald, now isn’t the time-” 

“They took Martin.”

Into the silence that followed, Harvey asked, “who the fuck is Martin?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have updated sooner, but April and May kicked my ass. I'll try to have the other half done slightly sooner, lol.

**Author's Note:**

> This was gonna be a one shot, but I got impatient and decided to break it into chapters. *shrug* This takes place over the course of a couple of years, cause these two seem like the slow burn then spontaneous combustion type of people. Also, Ecco's last name is Frances. Cause she never canonically had a last name I thought it'd be a neat reference. 
> 
> Also, while writing the outline for this I had a Jimmy Neutron brain blast moment: Wayleska crack vid set to Love is an Open Door. We even have a scene for the sandwich line. So, if anyone wants to take a crack (ha) at it, please do so.


End file.
